What we do
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Written for Kinkmeme prompt: When Lestrade meets John with Sherlock, he pretends to not know him. In fact, he remembers John very well: he'd talked John off the ledge of a bridge. He never saw John again until that moment with Sherlock. Warnings for suicidal thoughts,discussions. Gen.


Full Prompt at the end so as not to completely give the story line away!

Warnings for suicidal thoughts and issues. and un-betad.

* * *

Jumpers were probably the worst things about the job. Sure there were a lot of ugly, vile things in the world, but usually Greg's job allowed him to do something. Feel as if he'd made some action, some difference in the lives of those he met.

Robbie had dealt with a jumper once. Said it was the worst thing he had ever seen; the moment where the guy's hands unfurled from the railings and the body just fell, battered by air.

So slow and yet so unstoppable.

In all his years on the force, Greg had never encountered a jumper. He'd seen a few scrapped off of the lines every so often but by the point the damage was done. He could soothe the horrified driver and calmly explain to the family what had happened. It was never fun, but he could at least pride himself on the fact that he was a sympathetic character, a person that most seemed to collapse upon with ease.

For a moment he allowed himself to picture someone else doing his job. Some tall beansprout that seemed to think that he was better than the entire police force combined because he could tell a murderer from what flavour crisp had been left by the body or something equally amazing and unbelievable. Sherlock Holmes never seemed to understand that sometime it went beyond the puzzle.

Strike that. Sherlock Holmes would be bewildered by the idea. The few flashes of humanity and softness that Greg had glimpsed were a relief, but sadly few and far between.

So it was with a huge amount of trepidation that he approached the lonely figure standing on the wrong side of the railings looking down into the river.

"You need to talk?" he asked.

The figure, a man, stumbled in surprise, and then seemed to debate the answer.

"Probably," came the eventual, almost bitterly amused reply. "But I have a therapist."

"Do you want me to call them for you?"

The man shook his head, seeming less than enamoured with the idea. "Not really. She'll just talk about trust issues again."

"Well…" Greg leaned against the railing keeping a certain distance in case his proximity would cause a panic. "I'm no trained psychologist but I can listen."

The man turned his head a little. "Why?"

"Police officer," Greg thanked god every day that he was out of uniform, but sometimes it did make life easier to be quickly identified. "You?"

The man looked away and out, up the river again. "Nothing."

"You've never had a job?"

There was a slight quirk of laughter, "Yeah…just not now." He sighed, "Not sure you can really call yourself a doctor if you no longer practise, or a Captain if you're not longer in service."

Soldier. Doctor.

Jesus.

If Sherlock was here he probably could have deduced the man's problems from his shirt and shoes.

"What happened?"

"I got shot," was the frank reply.

"Bugger," Greg said, because what else could you say? "Mate of mine got shot in the line of duty. But he's doing wheelies in a chair now and has a desk job."

"Threw the cane in the Thames," the man sighed. "Seemed like a good idea to follow."

"Leg wound," Greg sighed.

"No, got shot in the shoulder," there was that grin again and suddenly the man sighed. "It's just all so…slow. So pointless and shallow."

Years of dealing with Sherlock Holmes had prepared him for this moment. Years of listening to endless rants about how stupid and thick and slow the world was made him relax fractionally.

"I have a-"what the hell did you call Sherlock? "-person that I know. Mad as a hatter, but brilliant with it. He sees the world in a way I'll never understand and he hates it."

"You know you're meant to be talking me down?"

Greg smiled. "But he does something great with it. Difficult as hell mind you, but great none the less."

"Yeah, well, I think my great days are behind me."

"You sure?" Greg asked quietly. "And, if you are, what's to say you won't get to make others great?"

The man snapped his gaze to Greg thoughtfully. "Bit philosophical isn't it?"

"You're about to jump off a bridge mate. I think it's the time to be philosophical."

The man looked back down and sighed.

"Bridge will always be here," Greg stepped forward offering his hand. "Try."

And just like that John Watson took his hand.

* * *

John had probably never really intended to jump, but Jesus did Greg feel relieved when he saw the man again, even if it was at a rather perplexing crime scene. John had recognised him too and there had been a flare of panic in his eyes.

Sherlock, oblivious to the ways of the living, was far too excited (a fact that made Greg grab at his forehead in pain) to pay attention to what Greg later found out was his latest flatmate.

"Sherlock Holmes is a great man," he said, watching John's eyes flare in recognition, "And I think, if we're lucky, he might even be a good one too."

John met his eyes and nodded once.

Orders received.

* * *

A year and a half later it was Sherlock that had fallen and John who had been standing by, watching and lost to do anything.

"Should have been you on the other end of the phone," John said bitterly into his pint.

"You didn't want to jump John," Greg said, wishing to God that they hadn't suspended him. Too much time meant far too much time to think. "It was hardly the same."

"I didn't want to put that on you," John downed what was left of the pint and, though his eyes lingered on the pump at the bar, he stood. "I didn't want a well-meaning stranger to watch that."

John walked out and Greg closed his eyes.

For the next three months he kept an eye on the bridge. John never even went close to it.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes didn't know the meaning of the word quiet. He blazed back into their lives with snipers, gunshots, crime syndicates and enough high profile arrests to have Greg's superiors scrambling to promote him again.

Greg hadn't a clue what was going through John's head. Sometimes it was as if John had been brought back to life along with that thoughtless git. Other times it was as if the return had buried him.

* * *

Two months after, when everything had settled down, there was trouble in paradise.

It wasn't a surprise really. Both Sherlock and John coped far better when they were in the midst of danger, stress and ex-army snipers dogging their every move. But the quiet moments after, those were the difficult ones for the pair of nutters.

Greg could see it, unfolding like the pages of a book every time they came to a crime scene. The distance, the awkwardness. That was until Sherlock declared it was a seven and the pair dashed off somewhere.

A lot of cases were above a seven these days.

But it was getting worse. Every time they walked onto a scene together John was just a little bit further behind, Sherlock a little more short tempered.

"Think they're havin' a domestic?" Sally asked, looking over a witness statement as Sherlock crouched over the body and John stood against the far wall, watching carefully with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Leave it alone," Greg warned quietly, meeting her gaze purposefully. "Just let him get on with it."

"John," Sherlock summoned.

Greg watched as John pushed himself off the wall, his expression remaining carefully blank.

God only knew what Sherlock could read from that.

The pair conferred over the body as Greg oversaw the witness statements; ensured evidence was bagged correctly and kept a careful eye on Sherlock's lightning quick hands. He hadn't worked in the pickpocketing squad when in uniform for nothing.

It was impossible to miss the anger starting to show on both their faces.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock snapped loudly. "A goldfish would be of more use."

Sally looked torn between snorting in amusement and looking furious on John's behalf. Greg tapped her with the bag he was holding and passed the evidence to her.

John said something, far too quiet to be heard and there was a flash of hurt on Sherlock's face.

Danger!

"You are hardly vital to my work or life," Sherlock snarled, far too loudly for Greg's lot to not hear. "More akin to a fan I cannot shake. Was it just the fact I cured your limp or was your life really that dull before you met me?"

"Sherlock!" Greg roared at him, unable to see John's face from the angle he was standing in. "Enough."

Sherlock looked up, startled and Greg could almost see him replaying the scene in his head. Then there was a moment where Sherlock seemed to press pause and consider his words and paled.

By that time John had stood and walked away without a word.

Sherlock watched him go and then looked back down at the body, pulling his magnifier out again, shoulder hunched like a small child waiting to be scolded.

"Coffee break," Greg said to Sally loudly. "All of you. Now. Keep a few on the tapes to make sure no-one comes in."

Within minutes the alley way was quiet and Greg could just see the outline of those stationed at the entry ways.

"Killer was-"

"What did he say to you?" Greg blundered over Sherlock's attempt at explaining his deductions. "What on earth could John have said to have prompted that reaction?"

Sherlock tightened his jaw. "He was leaving anyway. I despise drawn out goodbyes."

"Sherlock," Greg snapped.

"He never…" Sherlock frowned down at the body, "he never reacts the way he's meant to."

"He didn't say anything did he?" Greg sighed, looking in the direction John had gone.

"He never does," Sherlock sounded so frustrated at the fact that Greg looked back down at him in amazement. "Everything is fine, everything is understandable. He never…he walks away. He always walks away."

Somewhere, in the depths of his voice, a lost little boy was crying out in utter confusion.

Greg sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"You shouldn't have jumped."

"If I hadn't, believe me, we would not be having this conversation."

What the hell was that meant to mean? Tired, Greg just shook his head. "You could have faked your death in a thousand different ways Sherlock," he said softly. "You shouldn't have jumped."

Sherlock tilted his head, blinking at if a piece of evidence had suddenly appeared.

"Tell Donovan what you have," Greg suggested. "I'll be back in ten."

* * *

Sure enough John was sat on the ledge, a little away from where he had been before but in a far more precarious position.

"Solved it?" John asked absently, the wind ruffling his hair.

"No," Greg eyed him up carefully. "Too busy complaining that you always walk away from his attempts to start a row."

John didn't smile. There was none of the rueful humour that had been with him the first time they had stood here.

"John."

"I'm so angry with him," John said fiercely. "Some days I can barely believe how angry. I have visions of throttling the bastard."

"I don't think you're alone there," Greg muttered.

"He has nightmares," John said suddenly. "Terrible ones. And afterwards it's like dealing with a wet cat. He lashes out and screams bloody murder. Breaks things…" John shifted a little on the ledge and Greg felt his heart drop into his stomach and how easy it would be for John to just slip. "I wasn't there," John added, a million miles away.

"Maybe he wanted to protect you?" Greg asked and then froze as a very Sherlock like figure approached.

"Moriarty was never bothered by me," John snorted. "He used to call me Sherlock's live in pet." John closed his eyes. "And why would he take me with him? What possible use would I have been?"

Sherlock was close enough now that if John opened his eyes and turned his head he would see him. Furious, but not wanting to startle John with how precarious his balance was, Greg shook his head at Sherlock and pointedly looked at the end of the bridge.

There was fear in Sherlock's eyes, a lost kind of fear as he looked at where Greg was indicating, clearly hesitant about what to do.

"Say something," Sherlock mouthed, a little wild as he took a few steps towards John until he stood directly behind, hidden by the steel rod that helped support the bridge.

"You don't think a doctor or a soldier would have been useful?" Greg said, mind floundering in panic at the length of silence.  
"We're had that conversation here before," John sighed.

Sherlock's gaze snapped to Greg, narrowing.

"We have," Greg said, not breaking eye contact with the consulting detective. "You didn't jump then and you are not going to do it now."

Sherlock went white, head leaning back against the steel as he stared up at the sky.

Greg was just about petty enough to be glad that hit home.

"Do you think he'd care?" John asked dully.

Sherlock didn't move.

"Yes," Greg said instantly.

"Another skull to put on the mantelpiece," John peered over the edge in a way that had Greg lean over terrified. "The impact of hitting the water from this height shouldn't have too much of an effect on it."

"John," Greg couldn't even look at Sherlock, "John, you told me once you hadn't done it because you didn't want me to see-"

"It's not that difficult," John said calmly. "Watching someone fall…it's…like watching a film. It's the bit afterwards…touching the body, the blood, the eyes…" John shook himself and Greg swallowed his heart again at the movement. "Well," John frowned, "Granted I saw a fake one, but it looked very convincing. Probably more than this."

"John," Greg snapped, terrified.

John turned and looked at him. A long, lengthy look before he sighed and sat back a bit.

Greg breathed a small sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said, trying to pour his sincerity into his words.

"I couldn't do it even before you got here," John rubbed a hand over his face. "Can't picture it without seeing him…" John swallowed. "Stupid really isn't it? I want…I want to punish him. Even though I know he went through hell, that small part of me wants him to know how it felt to be left behind. To wonder…" John sucked in a breath. "To wonder what would have happened if I'd been smarter, braver, quicker. Said the right thing…"

A quick glance at Sherlock showed him staring resolutely ahead at absolutely nothing.

"I told him he was a machine," John said shaking his head. "The last thing I said to his face for three years was that he was a machine. That friends protect each other and I let him….I should let him go," John sighed. "He doesn't need me. He probably never needed me."

Sherlock turned and seemed to be studying the steel rod and the bridge thoughtfully.

"You know that's not true," Greg said, slightly distracted by Sherlock. "What are you doing?" he mouthed at the man.  
Sherlock made an impatient gesture towards John.

"I really did believe you," John almost smiled. "The very next day after our conversation this man is suddenly in my life. This great man and I thought you were right. I was done, but I could help him, keep him…safe isn't the right word, but I could make sure he was seen and heard. I could prop him up and be his right hand man. Even when he was dead I could believe that. I could help clear his name, I could keep his memory alive…and all along I was probably fucking up his plans. A bumbling idiot that he must have wanted to just shut up!"

Sherlock was climbing the rails.

"John-"

"Stupid," John muttered, slumping in defeat.

"John-"

Something in his tone must have caught John's attention because he turned curiously to look at Greg which gave Sherlock a perfect opportunity to sit himself on the ledge and grab John's arm.

John jumped a mile. Greg nearly had a heart attack and Sherlock just held on to both John and the side as if bored of the entire matter.

"How long-" John breathed looking horrified.

"We will discuss it at home," Sherlock said looking as if he were trying to tug John back.

"Oh God," John buried his face in his jeaned legs. "This is pity isn't it? I've sunk so bloody low that even Sherlock Holmes feels pity for me."

Sherlock looked rather offended at that and glared at Greg as if it were his fault.

"Say something," Greg mouthed back, folding his arms.

To say Sherlock looked ill at the idea would have been an understatement. He glared around him and then looked away.

Then down.

Whatever went through his head made Sherlock swallow as John sat, shaking his head at himself. Slowly, Sherlock raised his eyes and his grip on John changed. Still iron fast but less of a mindless grab and more…comforting in some ways.

"It wouldn't have been home if you hadn't been there," Sherlock said suddenly.

John lifted his head and Greg looked away, unwilling to intrude but equally reluctant to leave until both idiots were on solid concrete again.

"And I wouldn't have jumped if there hadn't been a sniper pointed at both of you."

What?

"What?" Greg asked suddenly stepping forward, "A sniper-"

"I am attempting to get John back onto the right side of the bridge. Could you hold your opinion right now?" Sherlock snapped.

"You jumped to save us?" John breathed.

"A feat that will be wasted if we remain perched upon this ledge much longer."

Slowly John nodded.

* * *

"You never told me you had met before," Sherlock said at the door to the building.

"John didn't want me to," Greg said stiffly. John had gone in looking ashen but more settled then he had for a long time. "It was his choice."

Sherlock frowned in displeasure. "I always assumed it would be a gun," he said almost conversationally. "I used to hide it from him continuously."

"I probably should pretend I didn't hear that," Greg muttered, rolling his eyes. "You knew?"

"Suspected," Sherlock stared up at the living room window. "I never realised it had been so close. I…I assumed I had cured the urge along with the limp."

"Probably did," Greg said staring down the street. "I never saw him at the bridge again."

"You checked?"

Greg nodded.

Sherlock slumped, seeming unsure. "He's too good," he said in such a faint voice Greg was almost sure he hadn't been meant to hear it.

"Bit of an over-kill wasn't it?" Greg said suddenly, "Just John would have sufficed. You'd have hopped over without protest."

Sherlock looked away and then almost wriggled as if desperate to get out of the situation. With an awkward nod at Greg he climbed the steps.

Then suddenly paused, sighing in frustration.

"The last thing John said to me that day was that friends protect each other," Sherlock said to the door. "It seemed to be fitting for what happened."

Greg smiled, staring at the socially inept, awkward man that for all the world looked as if he were talking to a door in the most convoluted fashion known to man.

"You're a good man," he said, almost amused at the way Sherlock's shoulders tightened. "It's why half of London spray painted the walls and why that man in there led the charge."

Sherlock clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I will send you the directions for finding the murder weapon. I imagine Anderson is still pawing around the alleyway."

Greg nodded and watched Sherlock walk inside and shut the door.

Moments later, illuminated against the light and net curtains, two figures stood by the window.

Nodding at the sight, Greg turned and got into the car, taking a breath before he went to deal with the murder squad and privately hoping that in a week's time when he checked the blog there might finally be an update.

* * *

Full Prompt:

When lestrade meets John with Sherlock, He pretends to not know him. In fact, he remembers John very well: He'd talked John off the ledge of a bridge. He never saw John again until that moment with Sherlock.

Sherlock has returned, and things have settled. A case has been a bother to Sherlock for some time as he cannot solve it...and it's irritating him. At one point, in a fit of 'sulking' Sherlock tells John that he never knew why he jumped to save John's life, that john is nothing, etc.

For some reason, these insults hit John very close. He leaves the scene and Sherlock mocks him for it. Lestrade sees something in Johns face that reminds him of that time so long , for the first time in his career, closes the door on everyone but Sherlock and implodes at Sherlock. He tells Sherlock that he's tired of his 'sociopath' act, of his cruelty and of his mainipulation and that it just may have cost Sherlock the most important person of his life.

Lestrade leaves and finds John sitting on the edge of the same bridge. He tells Lestrade that he's not about to kill himself but...

Lestrade listens as John finally speaks about his own guilt over being angry at Sherlock's deception. How he sometimes wonders if Moriarty was right...and he reay is just a pet to sherlock. Someone to praise him and put up with him and do the washing up.

It's at this point that Sherlock reveals himself to John and rights him about all the very wrong ideas he has about his role and importance in Sherlock's life.

Author's Note: I really need to stop being such a cow to John!


End file.
